


(i just might) remember that night

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crack Treated Seriously, Dick Pics, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Hook-Up, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Based the prompt:my boss is always telling me how perfect her son would be for me and she promises he’s coming to the next holiday party and don’t worry he’s heard all about me too and ALSO + there’s this dude i slept with once a couple of months ago and sometimes he still sends me dick pics when i ask him to at 3 in the morning cause seriously dude’s got a good dick AUOr, how Good Dick nearly ruined Quentin Coldwater's life.





	(i just might) remember that night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decideophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/gifts).

> This fic exists because of [Nasti on twitter](https://twitter.com/proofsofconcept/status/1162092730350297093), it crawled into my brain and wouldn't leave. I have no idea, just go with it?
> 
> Hearts for days to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) who, as always, rolled with my nonsense.

“Julia!!” 

Julia stumbles, a little, when Quentin rushes up to her, dragging her away from where she’s about to make a very, very, very regrettable decision with James from work. 

“Fucking– what, Jesus, why are you cockblocking me?”

“With _James?_ You’ll thank me later. Julia, _dick-pic guy is here.”_

Quentin can hear the edge of hysteria trickling out of his own voice, but seriously? Seriously? There should be a rule that when you find dick so good you literally _can’t stop thinking about it,_ the man who wields it should not just be able to show up at your company summer barbecue. Like he and his fantastic fucking cock just _belong there._

“The one you’ve been pining after for months?” Julia crows, delighted, looking around like the guy might be wearing a shirt that says ‘my monster cock blew Quentin Coldwater’s mind.’

“I have not been _pining,_” Quentin hisses, and tugs her further behind one of the potted plants littering the spacious backyard of Genji’s Hamptons beach house. Oh good, and Genji’s been going on and on for weeks about how her prodigy is coming to this party, how he’s like a _son_ to her, and how he’s absolutely _perfect_ for Quentin. Now Quentin’s going to completely unable to focus on whoever the fuck Genji’s kid is, no matter how much of a hopsitality management savaunt he was, because _Eliot is here._

* * *

_(three months earlier)_

There was seriously nothing more awkward that Quentin could think of than going to your ex-girlfriend’s twenty-sixth birthday alone. Well, possible being _dumped_ by said girl on her birthday, but that was _last year,_ Quentin was over it.

Totally over it.

Definitely not hiding on the balcony of the party, hoping no one would notice he existed. He didn’t even want to _come_ to this stupid party, except Genji was his boss, and Alice was her niece, and Quentin had spent the first 4 months after the break up terrified of being fired from his (well paying, benefited and predictable) assistant’s job, which he’d only gotten in the first place because Alice had gotten sick of him being directionless and pursuaded Genji to take him on.

That had somehow turned into a career in resort management, which had managed to withstand being dumped by the boss's niece. He wasn’t sure it would outlast wrecking her party, though, so. Quentin was out on the porch of Genji’s ridiculously gaudy penthouse, trying to remain unseen. If no one saw him, he couldn’t exactly cause a scene. He’d mingled just long enough to count, and now he was staying out of the way.

He hadn’t accounted for Eliot, but how can you possibly account for a hurricane in human form?

Eliot had tumbled out onto the balcony in a spray of laughter and sound from inside the apartment, fishing a cigarette out of his waist-coat with a wild smile on his face. Quentin had been starstruck from moment one, breathless with the ethereal beauty of the man. He’d caught sight of Quentin immediately, and Quentin had wanted to shrink under the force of his gaze.

“Well, hello there,” Eliot, though Quentin hadn’t known that at the time, had murmured, strolling up towards Quentin. “You’re far too lovely to be out here by yourself. Got a light, by any chance?”

Quentin, who was not the kind of person who people called ‘lovely’, or strolled up to looking hungry, stuttered “Um, yeah, hang on,” and fished his shitty Bic lighter out of his pocket. This man looked like the kind of person who had like.... antique metal lighters, or matchbooks swiped carelessly from hotel rooms in Prague. He looked like something out of a dream, a romantic novel, conjured up by Byron or Fitzgerald to manifest on this balcony, Jay Gatsby in a puff of cigarette smoke.

Men like that intimidated the hell out of Quentin as a rule, and in his experience they were usually dicks in the end, either to him or to one of his three close female friends. But the man had hopped up sit onto the ledge of the balcony with reckless abondon and started the conversation with “Feel free to tell me to fuck off if you want me too,” and Quentin had found that he– didn't. 

Like maybe for just one night, he wanted to pretend he was the kind of guy people like this talked too, paid attention to, took seriously at all. 

“I’m Eliot,” the man had quipped, swinging his feet in their shiny leather shoes and given Quentin a pleasant speculative look. 

“Ah– Q. My friends call me Q.”

“Excellent, we are most definitely friends,” Eliot had teased, and Jesus, he practically sparkled. How did a single human being radiates _so much personality?_

Eliot had been shockingly easy to talk too, smoothing over Quentin's awkwardness with a careless grace Quentin found himself a little envious of. Like Eliot was comfortable enough in his skin for the both of them.

Eliot, apparently, was in town visiting family, which he glossed over with a breezy wave of his hand. "So how do you know Alice?" Quentin had wondered aloud, because okay, he may have not been the best boyfriend in the world, but attentiveness wasn't usually where he fell down. Kind of the opposite. The word "smothering" had been used more than once. He's sure he'd have noticed if Alice mentioned this man before. 

"Oh, we run in overlapping circle, friends of friends of friends," Eliot said cheerfully, like it was perfectly normal for him to end up at near-strangers’ birthday parties. Maybe it was, fuck. "How do you know Alice?" 

"Oh, um. We went to college together. We dated for a while, but that's over. Has been for a while." Quentin stumbled over himself, overeager, and the emphasis was not lost on Eliot. 

"Good to know," Eliot said lightly, and it was remarkable how Quentin didn't feel even a little bit like he was being laughed at. He was never this at ease with people, but the chemistry sparkled in the air between them, and when Eliot's fingers brushed against his arm, Quentin leaned into him.

It continued in that vein for the rest of the night. Quentin would have sworn up and down he was putting out _'I'm a sure thing, take me now'_ vibes, but Eliot seemed interested in actually getting to _know_ him, which might not be exactly necessary but was admittedly very nice. Eliot disappeared back into the party for long enough to locate and retrieve a full bottle of wine, then they tangle together in the early-spring air, drinking Shiraz straight from the bottle and talking.

Eliot made the mistake of getting Quentin started on books, and then it was all hopeless from there on out, honestly. Quentin secret passion just bled out of him into the night. "I did my thesis on the Hero's Journey and how it's been rejected or adapted over time. Like, Homer verses Kerouac verses Plover."

"Plover?" Eliot questioned, taking the bottle back. 

"Um, _Fillory and Further_? I know, it's a kid’s book, but Jane Chatwin is one of the earliest examples of a girl who goes on the archetypal hero's journey. Even in Narnia, the girls aren't really on their own journeys."

"Hmm," Eliot hummed thoughtful. "I've never read those. I always found queer theory to be my preferred branch of literary analysis, and I know all those kids are siblings, so."

"Oh, but there's so much textual evidence that the older brother is gay!" Quentin had jumped to explain, because Eliot actually seemed interested. "Or bisexual, it's possible it wasn’t exactly easy to differenate when compulsory heterosexuality was so prevalent."

Eliot didn't look alarmed by Quentin passion. Quite the opposite in fact. "You're fucking cute when you care about something. So few people manage to do that."

"Well, somethings are just worth caring about."

"A few," Eliot acknowledged, fingers dragging suggestively along the tender inside of Quentin wrist. 

"Fillory was important to me, okay? It showed me for the first time how powerful stories can be." Quentin snorted ruefully. "Like every other angsty white boy, I wanted to be a writer. Had a novel all sketched out and everything."

"Why'd you give it up?" Eliot asked curiously, like he just lived in a world where people pursued their dreams.

_Because I couldn't push through the darkness and the most important person pulling for me at the time only knew how to help by getting me to leave it behind,_ he thinks, but that’s not fair to Alice. She'd never signed up to be his keeper. "Because nobody does that in real life?"

"Well, somebody does, obviously, or there’d be no books. You should go for it." 

"No, I'm-" _too tired, too helpless, too lost to the person who wanted that. Maybe even not good enough in the first place._ "That's not me anymore."

"Q. Q, listen to me. I am your manic pixie dream boy, floating into your life on this one night to tell you to pursue your dreams. Clearly I know what the fuck I'm talking about. This half a bottle of wine has made me an authority on your life."

Quentin laughed, because even Eliot’s self-mocking tone showed how ridiculous the suggestion was. Still, it felt- kind of nice? To have someone believe in him. 

It felt even nicer 20 minutes later when Eliot kissed him, sweet-slick and talented under the stars. Even nicer still when they tumbled into Quentin's bed, making out like teenagers.

“Fuck me,” Quentin had panted, hot and hungry into Eliot’s mouth, and then gotten completely side-tracked the second that Eliot’s pants were off, because _holy shit._ That was a beautiful dick, right there, long and thick and almost... pretty? Rosey pink and just a little shiny at the tip, set into a bed of neatly trimmed hair. 

Quentin’s mouth literally watered at the sight. “New plan,” he panted out, embarrassingly breathless, and just– aimed to swallow Eliot whole, honestly. 

He was brought up just shy of getting the lovely wet tip in his mouth by Eliot’s hand in his hair. “Condom,” Eliot reminds him, voice strained. Which, right. Ugh. He hated the taste of latex, but he really didn’t know anything about Eliot or where he’s been.

Watching Eliot’s lovely hands roll a condom down his beautiful dick might have been worth it, though, just for the spank-bank material. Jesus. It was possible Quentin needed to get out more, if he was this helpless for the first dick he found.

To his credit, Eliot had done his best to maintain good blowjob etiquette, hands resting only on Quentin’s shoulders and hips well under his control. But that wasn’t what Quentin wanted, he didn’t want restrained. He wanted– “I like it if you pull my hair,” he whispered, licking around the head of Eliot’s cock, and fuck, he did not need to be told twice. 

Eliot swore, fingers going tight_tight_ in Quentin’s hair. It made Quentin shiver all over, a radiating kind of arousal that made his nipples hard against his thin shirt, made his cock throb in the confines of his skinny jeans.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so lovely,” Eliot panted above him, running his mouth off a little as Quentin responded to it. “Yeah, you just want to be good, don’t you?”

It hit right. Oh, _fuck_, it hit right, something inside Quentin just shivered and sighed and released. Tears sprang to his eyes, though that could be from choking on Eliot’s beautiful fucking cock. He nodded, as much as it’s possible to do with a dick in your mouth, and sighed as Eliot’s fingers scraped over his scalp.

“Oh baby, you’re being good, you really, really are,” Eliot murmured, which, Jesus, okay. Jesus, Quentin felt like his skin was on fire. He redoubled his efforts, whining a little around the cock in his mouth, and it wasn’t long before Eliot was laughing in delight, fist going tight in Quentin’s hair as he came, hot pulses into Quentin’s mouth, caught by the condom.

He’d pulled Quentin up to kiss after that, and fuck, Quentin loved being kissed. He’d always loved being kissed but the way Eliot kissed was... playful and hot and deep. _Like him_, Quentin thought, dick-drunk and stupid, and when Eliot flipped him over onto his back on the bed, he couldn’t deny the little surge of excitement in his guts.

“I want to fuck you,” Eliot had panted, fitting his hand down between Quentin’s legs to cup his cock through his pants, give him something to grind up against. “Can I– will you let me do that?”

“Yes,” Quentin had panted, and Eliot had taken him apart.

It was almost torturous, the way Eliot took his time with his fingers inside Quentin and his mouth on Quentin’s mouth. God, Quentin wasn’t sure if he’d ever been kissed this much, and certainly not by a one-night-stand, but Eliot seemed to be able to tell that he loved it. Eliot, in fact, seemed to be some kind of magician at figuring out exactly what Quentin liked and just... _doing more of it._ He was so wound up by the time Eliot flipped him over onto his knees and slid his dick in, there was no pain to the stretch at all. He just felt full. God, so fucking _full._

Then Eliot drew out, and slid back in and Quentin moaned, helpless, because he could feel that _everywhere._ Eliot was so deep inside him it was like he might never leave. God, it felt so good Quentin’s _teeth_ ached, and Eliot just– fucked him, deep and well, attentive but not overly cautious. Hard like he thought Quentin could take it, and careful enough to make sure Quentin was enjoying it. Quentin had come on his dick, given over to helpless shivers, and then laid there boneless and liquid as Eliot laughed his way through another orgasm. 

If he’d been thinking in advance at all, he’d have expected Eliot to be the type to roll out of bed the moment sweat started too cool, off to the next adventure. But he wasn’t, he didn’t, he let Quentin snuggle close and kissed him some more, kissed him until Quentin’s abused mouth was achy and sore. It felt– tender, too tender for what it was, but Quentin couldn’t draw himself away from the feeling that he was being _seen,_ for the first time in his life.

There was no pillow talk, they were both too sleepy and worn out for that, but Quentin had drifted half-awake for a long time, feeling Eliot’s hands on his skin, the scratch of Eliot’s chest hair under his cheek, the rise and fall of his breath. When he finally drifted off, it was Eliot’s smell that lingered in his mind, brighter than he would have expected, not musky but sweet like summer fruit under the clean-sweat smell. Quentin snuggled close and held on.

He woke up alone, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the text message waiting for him, from a newly-created profile containing a selfie of Eliot, dark curls spilling all over Quentin’s cheap Target sheets. Blinking sleepily, he swiped his phone open and read the message.

[[You really should lock your phone, but I’m glad you didn’t. Sorry to Irish-goodbye on you, but I had a flight at 8 this morning and I didn’t want to wake you. You’re peaceful when you sleep. I’m not going to be in New York again for a while, but I thought, just in case, I’d give you my number.]]

And then, sent an hour after the first.

[[Thank you for reminding me that honest people exist in the world.]]

And that had been that.

For about a week and a half, anyway, until Julia and Kady and Marina had dragged him out drinking and he found himself, laying in bed at 3am, exceptionally horny and a little lonely, staring at Eliot’s text thread.

[[i miss your dick. i liked him.]] Quentin typed out, feeling a little brave and a lot stupid, because that was less revealing than saying _I miss you. I liked you a lot._ He wasn’t exactly planning on sending the message, but well. He was drunk, and dropped his phone on his face, and somehow between that and the process of scrabbling to grab it before it hit the floor, he ended up hitting the send button.

Because of course he did.

Before he could literally die of mortification, the three little typing bubbles popped up, and Quentin– swallowed. Clutched his phone in his hand and watched, fascinated, as Eliot’s message pops up.

[[He misses you too, baby. Want to say hi to him?]] and that... almost sounded like a come-on. Definitely not like Eliot was offended.

[[god, i’m sorry, i’m a mess. it’s 3am, i shouldn’t be bothering you]]

Another moment of typing, where Quentin alternated between staring at the three dots and the word baby in Eliot’s last message. He seemed to stop and start a couple times, because the message he ended up sending wasn’t long.

[[I’m in California, so it’s only midnight here. I’m not the guy who sends unwanted dick pics, but you know... I have a camera on this phone.]]

Which was– a lot, frankly. Quentin felt hysteria bubble up somewhere under his ribs, but stronger was the arousal, the idea of Eliot being willing to stop whatever he was doing, wherever he was, and– do this for Quentin. So he replied, before he could think better of it.

[[it’s definitely not unwanted]] 

Which is how Quentin ends up jerking off to the prettiest dick he’s ever seen, ridiculously turned on by the fact that, through whatever circumstances, he’d made Eliot get hard tonight. Even if he was just camped out in the bathroom of a nice hotel, which it looked like. Eliot’s beautiful long thick cock was hard and held in his lovely big slender hand and well– Quentin couldn’t stop thinking about what it felt like in his mouth, sliding into his body when he wasn’t actively looking at it. When he was– what could you expect?

The awkwardness took over, once he’d come, embarrassment at his own neediness. He was briefly grateful that he would never have to see Eliot again, and vowed never to be such a horny disaster ever again.

It lasted about a week.

And then two weeks after that. 

After the fourth time, Quentin had kind of admitted that maybe this was a pattern he wasn’t exactly going to break, here. But it was harmless, it wasn’t like he was going to see Eliot again, right?

Ha.

* * *

“Why is he here,” Quentin whines, tugging Julia further into the shadows of the barbecue.

“Maybe it’s karma for your cock-blocking ways,” Julia grumbles, pinching him until he lets go of her. 

“Julia, I say this with the utmost love: don’t sleep with James. You will regret it the _minute_ Kady pulls her head out of her ass.”

“I’m not waiting for her. Just because her ex-boyfriend rolls back into town doesn’t mean I should–”

“_Julia,_” Quentin hisses, low-key hysterical. “Kady and Penny are constant sources of drama, can we just put that on the back burned for like two seconds while we figure out what to do about the guy whose dick is saved on my phone?”

“You saved the pictures?” Julia asks, grinning, cat like.

“Of course I saved the pictures, it’s like the Mona Lisa of dicks. The Venus DeMilo. An actual work of fucking art, Jules.”

“No dick is that pretty,” Julia says skeptically, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“You’re three quarters a lesbian, what do you know?”

“Biphobic!” Julia accuses, laughing, like 90% of their friendship these days isn’t based on helplessly pining after guys and girls in equal measure. 

Their bickering is cut short by Genji Quinn materializing out of thin air, tucking her hand neatly into Quentin’s arm and dragging him back towards the barbecue like a frighteningly competent silk and pearl adorned mother cat. 

“Now, Quentin, you _must_ meet my boy. I met him when he was 17, you know, entirely lost in the world, poor thing. Took him under my wing. I’m sure you’ll get on smashingly well, just come on. My you are a wriggly little thing, aren’t you?” Genji cooes, marching a disgruntled Quentin right up to–

“Eliot, this is Quentin. Quentin, my unofficial heir apparent, Eliot Waugh.”

Eliot, who’s practically shining in the sunlight, wearing a maroon polo and dark blue pants that make his legs go on for days, curls soft and neat in the breeze. Eliot, who’s here, apparently, because he’s the person Genji’s been angling to set Q up with for a month. A month, during which Eliot had sent him at least two dick pics.

Quentin freezes, predictably, but Eliot’s face shades from recognition to delight so quickly Genji actually manages to miss it. “Quentin,” he repeats, holding out a hand to shake. The same hand he _holds his dick with_, Quentin’s losing his fucking mind. “Q to your friends?”

“Yep, that’s me,” Quentin says, high pitched and embarrassed, and... takes the offered hand. Eliot’s skin is soft and warm, and the tension between them feels like visible electricity cracking into the air.

“I’ll let you two get acquainted,” Genji trills, obviously delighted, and flutters away just as abruptly as she’d appeared.

“She’s like a wizard with that vanishing act,” Quentin grumbles under his breath, and it makes Eliot laugh. _He laughs when he comes,_ Quentin thinks wildly, sure he’s about to absolutely burst into flames on the stop.

“She’s always done that,” Eliot shares conspiratorially. “Or at least she has for the past 10 years. Hey, let’s go find somewhere more private to talk, yeah?”

Eliot’s hand fits perfectly into the crook of Quentin’s arm, and he’s powerless to do anything but nod along, allow himself to be steered back away from the party and back up towards the house. For a moment Quentin thinks he’s being taken inside, and his stomach gives an aborted little wriggle of fear and excitement, but Eliot just tugs him around the building, up onto the front porch where there’s a couple chairs and a rocking swing bench. He settles there, but Quentin’s too restless to sit, starts pacing in tight little circles 

“I can't even begin to imagine what you think of me,” Quentin starts, embarrassment sinking into his stomach like lead. “How... lonely and desperate you must think I am.”

“Oh, Quentin, you way underestimate my ego. Of course I think my dick is worth obsessing over." The tone is lightly teasing, but not mocking, and Quentin finds himself relaxing a bit despite everything.

"Yeah, I don't... usually do that."

“I kind of figured,” Eliot says gently, rocking the bench lightly with his heel. “I’m not going to– judge you badly for it. I was as active a participant in it as you were.”

Which is true, and that combines with Eliot’s casual easy manage to relax him enough so he stops pacing. As casually as he can manage, he settles down on the other side of the bench swing, careful inches between their legs. Eliot just keeps rocking the bench, and it’s soothing, a little. Let’s Quentin relax a little more.

“What did Genji tell you about me?” He asks, morbidly curious, wonders how whatever she’d said before is mixing in Eliot’s brain now with whatever impressions he had already formed of Quentin from– that night, and after.

“She says all the time that she thinks that you’re talented but you need someone to push you out of your comfort zone,” Eliot says with a careless shrug, looking out over the idyllic neighborhood to give Quentin space to process that on his own. 

“Alice used to say the same thing,” Quentin mutters, because well. Alice was the reason he knew Genji in the first place. 

“Me on the other hand,” Eliot starts sardonically. “I could benefit from a steady influence, you see. Too irreverent, never going to amount to anything if I don't straighten up.” 

“I just want to say for the record that I have no interest in ‘straight’ening any part of you,” Quentin says with careful emphasis, and feels a small bloom of pride when he startles a laugh out of Eliot. 

“Likewise,” Eliot agrees with a small tip of his head. 

“So it's just... Genji meddling?” 

“Oh, of course it is, but I knew that before I knew it was you.” Eliot waves a dismissive hand. “She can meddle all she wants. I was prepared to blow this off from the get-go. I have no interest in being an Alice Quinn clone, and Genji is not actually my mother.”

“And now that you do know it's me?” Quentin asks, quietly. 

Eliot’s silent for a long moment, his hair fluttering in the breeze. “My life isn't different than it was three months ago, Q. I still travel for work constantly. I don't really have a home or a routine or anything to offer. What– you think I have a cute boy who I really liked asking to see my dick every other week for three months– and it just doesn't occur to me to want more?”

“I assumed I was annoying you,” Quentin says ruefully, looking down at his feet so he doesn't have to see Eliot's face. 

“You weren't,” Eliot says seriously. “Fuck, Q, you have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to call you. I started reading the Fillory books, you know? They sell them at most airports, I've been reading them while I fly. I'm almost done with the third one. And I keep... _Wanting to text you about it._”

“You could have,” Quentin cuts in. “I would have– it would have been nice to talk to you about that.” 

The smile Eliot gives him is a little sad. “I was your manic pixie dream boy, Q. I know what that role entails and it's not– texts about how children's book hits weird with my daddy issues. I was happy to be on your mind at all, fuck, even if it was just my dick.”

“I liked you more than your dick,” Quentin rushed, then feels his cheeks burn scarlet. “I mean. I really liked your dick. But fuck, Eliot, I only saw it in the first place because I felt– I'm not good with people, people aren't easy for me, and talking to you was easy for me.”

“Yeah?” Fuck, Eliot sounds so hopefully, he looks so hopeful, but his face quickly shutters. “That doesn't change the fact that I don't really have anything to offer you, Q.” 

“What, is this the middle ages? I'm not a prize you buy with goats and a nice plot of land. I just... Jesus, could we at least be _friends_? I want to hear what you think about the Fillory books, and about your work and– I really want to see your dick again but like. Attached to the rest of you.”

“That's a very broad definition of friendship,” Eliot says, laughter in his voice, and Quentin flushes. 

“Sorry, I– I know I can be a little intense. Alice used to say–”

“I don't really care what your ex-girlfriend used to say, Q, no offense,” Eliot says gently, but there’s something edged in his voice. “And as we established earlier, Alice and I are very different people.”

“Alice and I really didn't work,” Quentin says ruefully. “So that's probably a point in your favor.” 

“Good to know,” Eliot teases, reaching out to touch Quentin wrist. It feels sparkly, electric and alive, and Quentin twists into him on instinct. “Maybe we should just not... overthink it. When I'm here, I'm here. And when I'm not...”

“Text me about your daddy issues,” Quentin surmised, and watches kind of delighted as Eliot flushes for once. “Or anything else you want, really, but you know. That's always a good launch point.”

“You're kind of a brat,” Eliot says, sounding a little bit thrilled, drifting towards Quentin like gravity is drawing them together.

“Mmmhm,” Quentin agrees, excitement bubbling in his stomach as Eliot's breath hits his lips. He tilts his face up, thinking, _kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

“Good,” Eliot breathes, and then does. 

It tastes like a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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